Dear Signore Direttore, 

Now I am telling you story how I was treated at your hotella. I am a-comma from Roma as tourist to London and stay as a young christian man at your hotella. When I comma to my room I see there is no sheet on my bed. 

So I calla down to receptione and tella: " I wanta sheet." They tella me: "You go to toilet." "No, no you don't understanda me. I wanta sheet in my bed! " "You better not shit in your bed, you son of a bitch! " 

What is sonna-wa-beach? I ago downe for breakfast in ristorante. I order egg and bacon and two pieces of toast. I getta only one piece of toast. 

I tella waitress and point at toast: "I wanta piece! " 
She tella me: " You go to the toilet. " 
"No, no I wanta piece on my plate! " 
"You bloody well not piss on the plate! You go to the toilet!"

Why is your staff always saying "Go to toilet?" Is that a modern British tella? You know, I am 23 years old and I know for myself when I wanta go to toilet. 

Then in the evening I ago downe to ristorante for dinner. Spoon and knife is laid out on the table. But no fork. 

I tella waitress: "I wanta fork!" 
And she tella me: " Sure, everybody wanta fuck." 
"No, no you don't understand me. I wanta fork on the table." 
"So you want to fuck on this table? Get your pass out of here! " 

How comma this christian hotella tella the guests in such a bad manner? 

So I go down to receptione and ask for bill. I no wanta stay in this hotella no morro. 

When I have a-paid the a-billa the portier say to me: "Thank you, and peace on you." I say: "Piss on you too, you sonna-wa-beach, I now go back to Italy." 

Direttore, I never gonna stay in your hotella no morro, you sonna-wa-beach. 

Sincerely, 
Luigi Brampiano, 
Roma